


Children of the Oak

by leonidaslion



Series: Berserker [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Forced Prostitution, M/M, Spirit Animals, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time heals all wounds ... or so they keep telling Dean ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of the Oak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syllamon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=syllamon).



> Set 2 years after the Epilogue of Fetters of Fenrir.
> 
> [Art](http://crisisarrives.livejournal.com/24183.html) by yume_odori  
> [Art](http://catsbycat.livejournal.com/34287.html) by catsbycat

From their vantage point on the ridge above the clearing, they can see everything. The bonfire, and the tables piled high with food and drink, and the thirty-odd men and women wearing simple white robes. Some of the people down there are carrying daggers. A couple have swords. The whole woods smells like electricity and blood. It smells like sacrifice.

Dean really doesn’t want to be here.

“This is fucking stupid,” he mutters.

“We need all the help we can get, Dean,” Sam whispers. “These people would make good allies.”

“They’re fucking _witches_ , Sam,” Dean shoots back, even though they’ve had this conversation about a hundred times already.

“They’re pagans, actually,” Sam corrects him in the same prissy, lecturing tone he used the last time they went over this.

It used to drive Dean bugshit when his brother gave him that kind of attitude, but lately it doesn’t really bother him. After all, a little arrogance doesn’t seem like such a big deal when stacked up against the whole Hell on Earth thing they’re trying to prevent. Besides, Sam earned himself a little leeway when he yanked Dean’s balls out of the fire seven years ago.

Course, that doesn’t mean Dean doesn’t still like to needle him about it.

“That’s just wrong. Can’t trust people who won’t sit down to a good steak.”

“ _Pa_ gans, not _ve_ gans,” Sam says, but he’s smiling softly: well aware that Dean’s just messing with him.

Geri makes the soft, whuffing noise that’s the closest it can come to laughter and Dean grins. “Tomato, tomahto,” he says. “They’re still slutting around with demons.”

“The Starbright Order—”

Dean snorts because that name is never not going to be fucking ridiculous: seriously, the US of A’s most powerful psychics couldn’t come up with something a little more awe-inspiring?

Giving him a disapproving look, Sam continues, “—is a druidic order dedicated to the old ways, not a bunch of Satanists. Just because they’re pagans doesn’t mean they’ve been going around making deals.”

“That coven we wasted in Albuquerque last month begs to differ,” Dean points out, and then as his brother opens his mouth, he adds, “And I don’t want to hear that crap about a ‘few bad apples’ again. It only takes one to rot the whole fucking barrel.”

“We can handle one demon, Dean. Easy.”

“And if it gets a message out before we take it down? Those fuckers come running fast. Within a coupla minutes we’d be dealing with a whole host of ‘em. Just you, me, the fur balls and our fists. We’re good, man, but we’re not _that_ good.”

Sam gives him a long look, like he’s trying to peer into Dean’s soul, and Dean feels Geri moving forward to peer back. After only a brief hesitation, he lets the wolf to the front: it’s Geri’s body too, after all. Besides, there’s shit inside of him that he doesn’t want Sam looking at and the wolf makes a good blind. Wolf or not, though, it doesn’t take Sam longer than a few seconds to hunt down what he’s after.

“Is this about the weapons?” he asks, brow furrowing. ‘Ask’, of course, is a loose term because it isn’t so much a question as an incredulous statement.

“Hell yes, it’s about the weapons!” Dean snaps as Geri recedes again. “I’d feel a hell of a lot safer going in there with a couple of guns—fuck, even those freaky claws of yours. _Something_.”

“It’s a sacred space, Dean,” Sam says, which is the exact same argument he used back at the car a two hours ago, and at the motel room three hours before that, and a hundred other times over the last few days. “If we’re going to have any chance of them listening to us, we can’t piss them off by violating the sanctity of the land.”

“Sanctity my ass. They’re waving swords around, for crying out loud!”

“It’s their space,” Sam argues, as if that makes any kind of sense whatsoever. He doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed by how fucking weak the rationale is. Dean lets his breath huff out—part annoyance, part nerves—and Sam reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm.

“Look, man, I know this isn’t your favorite plan ever, but we need them. Lilith’s consolidating her power right now, but we both know that she’s going to attack eventually, and we’re going to need an army of our own if we’re going to have any chance of stopping her.”

It’s true, God help them both. God help the whole fucking world. Where the fuck are those angels—‘brightlights’, Geri calls them—when you need them?

Dean shakes his head with a humorless snort. “You ever miss the good old days when our biggest problems were dodging cops and not getting creamed by pissed off dead dudes?” There’s a rustle of movement and then the warm, soft pressure of his brother’s hand dropping on top of his.

“No.” Sam doesn’t say anything else—doesn’t stroke the back of Dean’s hand or send out that hot, cinnamon-almond smell that means he’s hungry for mating—but for some reason, Dean flushes all over and has to turn his face away from his brother’s before he does something completely unprofessional like tackling Sam, striping him down and fucking him right here.

 **Sammymate now,** Geri pipes up unhelpfully. **Treepriests can wait their fucking turn.**

 _What did I tell you about swearing?_ Dean demands, although he’s more grateful for the distraction than annoyed.

 **DeanMeMine’s words. Good words. Say what mean.**

 _You’re too young,_ Dean shoots back.

 **Not cub,** the wolf grumbles. Its voice has gone sulky and petulant the way it always does when Dean brings up its age.

“Yeah, well you fucking act it,” Dean mutters.

Sam cocks his head in question, curious, but when Dean gives his head a slight shake— _it’s nothing: just Geri being Geri_ —he doesn’t push for an explanation. Just offers Dean a fond smile and sweeps his thumb over the back of his hand. Then, lifting his own hand, Sam shifts far enough away that he isn’t radiating heat into Dean’s side anymore and turns his attention back to the clearing below.

Dean gives the Starbrights a quick glance himself and grimaces. As if the name and the outfits weren’t already bad enough, now they’re holding hands and singing. Bunch of fucking hippies.

 **Fuck fuck fuck,** Geri parrots.

This time, Dean ignores the wolf, which gives that husky, chuffing laugh again at its own wit. He really needs to get around to teaching Geri about the finer nuances of human humor.

“Remind me why we need them again?” he asks aloud.

“The andr have been allied with the treepriests of old. They left bloodied sacrifices for our kind on ancient stones and sang our songs to the stars. They were a strong people then, and can be again.”

It’s Sam’s voice, but it isn’t Sam speaking. Seven years and Dean still isn’t used to that. He doesn’t think he’s _ever_ going to get used to that. Doesn’t know how Sam can let the cougar just use his mouth whenever it wants, like his body isn’t his, like he’s just a fucking puppet to be used.

Geri goes still and small inside of Dean, and he clenches his jaw, digging his fingers into the earth. As annoying as the wolf can be, Dean hates hurting its feelings like this. Makes him feel just as crappy as hurting Sam does. Worse, it’s a reminder that he’s broken in some ways. Maybe in a lot of ways.

 **Not broken,** Geri says hesitantly. **Had thorn in paw. Thorn comes out, but paw still hurts. Will heal. Sammymate and DeanMeMineGeri will help.**

Dean grimaces at the illusory sensation of a tongue lapping at his face and rubs at his skin even though he knows that won’t do anything. _Lay off with the tongue, fur butt._

Sam, who is too perceptive for his own good, moves close again to nose at Dean’s cheek. “We can do this tomorrow,” he offers, resting his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades.

“I’m fine,” Dean grates out, but his brother’s hand doesn’t lift. This lying thing was a whole lot easier when Sam couldn’t smell it on him.

“Is it a flashback?” Sam presses.

Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but of course now that Sam went and brought it up he’s _having_ one, down on his knees with his hands tied behind his back and a cock wedged down his throat and fighting not to gag or puke because if he does they’re going to have to start all over again and it’s never felt so vitally important before that he learn the skill on the first try.

“Dean,” Sam is saying, low and urgent. “Dean, we’re right here. You’re safe. Come back to us.”

Dean wants to, he really does, but Sam’s voice doesn’t seem as real as Hank’s— _such a pretty mouth, open wider for me, that’s it, good little whore._ He jerks as Geri sinks its teeth into his mind—for something that isn’t going to leave any marks, that fucking _hurts_ —and drags him out of the past and back into the present. Without hesitation, he turns his head and buries his damp face against Sam’s shoulder: takes deep, shaky breaths and grounds himself in the familiar, comforting scents of brother and mate and Sammy. Inside, Geri is making itself as large as possible in an effort to block everything else out: all rough tongue and whining and soft, warm pelt.

“Damn it!” Dean swears, voice rough and angry. He’s shaking: chest a wash of emotions that he doesn’t even know how to begin sorting through. He fucking _hates_ feeling like this. Hates it all the more that he’s falling apart in front of Sam this time, which is the first that he hasn’t been able to hold off until he was alone in almost four months.

 **Never alone,** Geri reminds him, but of course that’s different. Geri doesn’t count because Geri _understands_. It’s in Dean’s head, a part of him, and so it knows how fucked up he is: all the sordid details of Dean’s past are just as much the wolf’s as his. Geri knows what it felt like to be trapped miles below ground: no sunlight, no sky, no control. It knows how it felt to believe that he was going to die in blood and sweat and perfume and come. Used up and broken down. Nothing more than some rich fuck’s plaything. Alone.

Sam, on the other hand … Well, whatever else Sam has become _(lovermatepartner)_ , he’s still Dean’s little brother, and Dean is never going to stop trying to protect him. He’s never going to stop wishing he could be the strong, capable hunter that Sam near hero-worshipped when they were kids.

Then again, he’s never going to _be_ that strong, capable hunter either.

“Shh,” Sam soothes, sitting up and taking Dean with him so that he can get his arms around Dean better. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Dean can’t think of any jokes to brush the moment aside, and anyway his voice isn’t working right, so he stays silent and lets his brother hold him. Distantly, he can hear a man calling the throng below to attention, which means that their cue is coming up, but he still can’t bring himself to pull away. Looks like they’re gonna miss their grand entrance tonight: the entrance Sam has been planning for over a month.

God, he’s so fucking _weak_. Sam doesn’t need someone like Dean pulling him down right now, not when Lilith is loose and gathering her forces and hunting them in her free time. Maybe it would be best for everyone concerned if he just … disappeared.

“DeanMeMine wants earth,” Geri blurts, shoving forward so fast that Dean’s head spins, and Sam’s arms tighten around him. The wolf recedes immediately, but of course the damage has already been done.

 _Traitor,_ Dean thinks in Geri’s direction. Despite the rapid-fire pound of his heart, though, word doesn’t carry any real heat or bitterness. He can’t be angry when the wolf is radiating enough concern and fear and love to leave their skin all but vibrating.

“It’ll pass, Geri,” Sam murmurs as he strokes a hand through Dean’s hair. “He feels bad right now, but he’s going to feel better in a few minutes. He’s had these episodes before, remember? But they always pass, and they’re fewer and father between, and one of these days he’s going to be just fine.”

Dean isn’t stupid, so he’s aware that Sam is actually talking to both of them, but he’s grateful for the flimsy subterfuge anyways. It’s bad enough being so goddamned open in front of his brother. He doesn’t need Sam babying him on top of it.

Of course, then Sam has to ruin the moment by adding, “But I still think you should talk to someone, Dean. It could help. Bobby knows someone in Minnesota that has experience in PTSD.”

“I’m not seeing a fucking shrink.” Dean borrows Dad’s ‘end of discussion, soldier’ voice: lacing the words with the threat of violence.

Normally when he uses that tone, Sam takes the hint and drops the subject, but today he comes back with, “You’re fine most of the time, but what if you have another flashback in the middle of a fight?”

Maryland. Dean can’t believe he’s bringing up fucking _Maryland._

“Then I’ll deal with it,” he bites out, shoving his brother away and getting to his feet. “Or Geri can take over.”

 **Wouldn’t,** Geri protests immediately, despite the fact that Dean is still dealing with the panicked adrenaline rush from the wolf doing just that. **Wouldn’t use you.**

Dean thinks of calling Geri on it, realizes that Geri already knows he’s aware of the irony of its protest, and then snorts inwardly as he wipes his hand over his face. _You have my permission to take over if I’m frozen like a fucking idiot and we’re about to die._

Down in the clearing, the Starbrights have begun to chant, and the sound reminds Dean of their purpose here. He still feels pretty crappy, but he felt a hell of a lot worse the first few years after the Arena and he managed to keep his shit together then. If he can’t do the same now, then ‘broken’ isn’t a strong enough word to describe what’s wrong with him. ‘Cowardly fuck up’ might be closer.

Clearing his throat, he announces, “We still have time to do this.”

“No.” Sam’s voice makes Dean think of a lashing tail and narrowed eyes. “We know where they’re all staying. We can talk to them individually later. Right now I’m taking you home.” Standing, he reaches for Dean.

Dean dances back out of range and scowls at his brother. “Don’t be an asshole, dude. I’m telling you I’m good to go. We’re here, they’re here, you said that us showing up right after they invoke the gate keeper is gonna look pretty fucking impressive, so if we’re gonna do this then we’re doing it now. End of discussion.”

Sam regards him for a moment, still in a way he could never manage before the cougar, and then nods. His mouth is drawn thin and tight, which is an expression that Dean is all too familiar with. It’s the look that comes right before ultimatums.

“You’re so anxious to get this over with? Fine. Agree to talk to Bobby’s friend and I’m with you.”

Despite his familiarity with his brother’s expression, it takes Dean a moment to understand what Sam is saying. Then he stiffens. His chest aches: much as he knows Sam only wants to help him, he can’t help feeling betrayed.

“You blackmailing son of a bitch.”

 **Please?** Geri pipes up, filling Dean’s head with pathetically hopeful puppy dog eyes. The eagerness with which the wolf is jumping on board with Sam’s plan is suspicious: if Dean didn’t know better, he’d think that Geri and his brother and Sam’s own furry passenger have been conspiring against him while he sleeps.

The image in his head shifts with the thought, morphing into a wolf with hunched shoulders and guilty eyes and a lowered, wagging tail.

“You talked to Sam when I was _asleep_?” Dean blurts, shocked enough by the revelation that the question comes out aloud.

“He’s worried about you,” Sam says. “We all are. We’ve been under a hell of a lot of stress lately, and those walls that you’ve been using to not deal with this crap are coming down. You worked really hard to let me in, Dean, but we both know that you never bothered to go any further. As soon as you could stand to be touched by me, you just—you shoved everything else back underneath the rug and put your head down and kept going. But all that crap? That’s still there, man, and these flashbacks are a big, flashing, neon warning sign.”

“What happened to ‘one of these days he’s gonna be fine’?” Dean demands. He’s defensive and angry with it, and Geri’s agitation is only making him feel worse.

“You _will_ ,” Sam insists, “But not if you don’t deal with the problem! And yeah, you’re getting better at locking the flashbacks out, but you—I keep waking up with you fucking crying in your sleep next to me, and you can’t—you can’t keep this much shit buried inside because one of these days the pressure is gonna get bad enough that it’s just going to explode. You’re going to self-destruct, Dean, and you’re going to do it at the worst possible moment, and I can’t. I. If Lilith gets her hands on you while you’re this vulnerable, I d-don’t know what she’ll do to you.”

Sam’s crying, Dean realizes with an appalled start: big, fat tears that are leaving his eyes red and his cheeks splotchy. He smells like sorrow and desperation, and although Dean never thought that his brother might be hiding something from him, he can tell from the strength of the scent that Sam has been hiding this for a while now. Geri whines inside him, straining toward their Sammymate, and Dean has no trouble going along with that impulse.

“Hey,” he says, stepping forward and gripping his brother’s shoulder. “Hey, man, I’m gonna be fine, okay?” And he feels fine right now: just as it always does, the storm has passed, leaving him a little weary but otherwise okay. He doesn’t feel like he just had a minor breakdown.

Which, he realizes belatedly, probably isn’t the healthiest sign.

Sam grabs him and yanks him close, pressing his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, and Dean stiffens reflexively with the need to pull away.

 _No,_ he thinks. _No, it’s Sam. I’m okay. I’m safe._ Although his body relaxes into the embrace at the reminder, his mind is moving faster than ever: memories of other bodies, other touches, flickering at the edge of his thoughts.

Fuck, he thought he was over that. He worked really fucking hard to _get_ over that.

“You don’t know,” Sam says. “You don’t know what she’s like, what she wants. I saw—God, baby, I saw so many things, I—she never killed you. Not _once_. She never. She kept you alive, she—she h-hurt you, she hurt you so much, and I—I can’t protect you, Dean. I’m here for you, I am, but I’m not enough, I don’t know how to fix you, and I can’t keep worrying about you getting caught in a flashback and fr-freezing, I _can’t_ , if they took you, Dean, I don’t know what I’d—”

Dean knows what Sam is talking about, of course—Sam told him all about those long nights by the fire when he summoned his own furry passenger and his cascading visions of the future—but at the same time he doesn’t understand at all. He realizes, for the first time, that Sam was also hurt by his time in the Arena. Not in the same way and not as obviously, but the end result is just as painful. Just as damaging.

Stepping back just enough so that he has room to maneuver, Dean ducks slightly and turns his head to the side so that he can get his lips on his brother’s and shut him up. Sam responds immediately, his mouth open and desperate. The kiss is tinged with brine like the sea.

 **DeanMeMine can fix Sammymate, but must heal first,** Geri offers sagely and then, distracted by the drag of lip on lip and the flick of tongues, pushes forward enough that Dean isn’t sure which one of them is controlling the kiss anymore. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know whom he’s kissing either—his brother or the cougar—but then again it really doesn’t matter because they’re both Mate. Both loved. He brings his hands up and cradles his brother’s face while Sam clings to his shirt, and they’re both trembling as though they’re prey rather than predators.

Dean kisses his brother until they’re both steadier on their feet and then, with a final lick, disengages. He doesn’t pull back, though: resting his forehead against Sam’s and his hands on his brother’s hips.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Sam whispers, bumping their noses. “I _can’t_.”

“I know,” Dean agrees. God, just the thought of being without Sam burns inside of him like acid. It makes him feel sick and rotten. To banish the feeling, he kisses his brother once more and then nods. “Okay. I’m not—I’m not promising any miracles or anything, but I’ll meet with the shrink.”

“Once a week,” Sam presses, the pushy fucker.

“Once _period_. I’m not signing up for the group sing until I meet the guy. He could be a quack for all I know.”

Besides, there isn’t any guarantee that Dean will be able to talk even if he wants to. For as long as he can remember, there has been a kind of disconnect between his heart and his mouth: everything gets garbled en route and comes out as sarcastic quips or defensive jibes. And his time in the Arena hasn’t actually helped at all.

 **DeanMeMineGeri can help,** the wolf offers. **Can speak for DeanMeMine.**

“Okay,” Dean breathes, nodding shakily. “Okay.”

Sam’s huge hands come up to brush at his cheeks, wiping away tears that Dean doesn’t really feel but can smell: thick brine of salt on the air. Dean tilts his face into the touch.

“On a scale of one to five year old girl, how bad is it?” he asks. After all, he isn’t going to make a great impression if he shows up looking like he just spent a couple of hours sobbing in the bathroom.

“You can’t tell,” Sam promises, and kisses both eyelids, one after the other. Dean can feel the upward tilt of his lips. His brother still smells like sadness, but it isn’t as bad anymore with that spring-like, flowering addition of relief. He obviously feels better now that they’ve had this little care and share.

Some things never change.

Dean steps away, ruffling Sam’s hair as he goes. “All right, let’s go stir up the natives.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They step out from the darkness as the last note of the gatekeeper’s invocation song drifts away on the thermals from the bonfire. It’s cold—cold enough that Bonnie is wishing that she hadn’t left her parka in her jeep—but these two are bare-chested and –footed. They stand at opposite sides of the circle, but it seems to Bonnie that they’re standing side by side anyway. It’s the way they move, and the thick, corded bond between them that she can almost feel between her fingers. They’re built, both of them, and any other time she’d be ogling their bodies—the way their muscles shine in the firelight—but right now she can’t take her eyes off their faces.

Off those gold, shining eyes.

“We come to seek alliance,” the longer-haired man _(can she call them men, though, really?)_ announces. “Who speaks for you?”

Bonnie glances toward Ray—he’s high priest tonight, he should answer—but Ray isn’t speaking up. Ray is edging away from the man nearer to him: the man with short, spiked hair and arching cheekbones and full, soft lips.

 _Beautiful,_ Bonnie thinks, and, _Dangerous._

Everyone is edging away, actually: grouping into a frightened, milling clump like a flock of sheep hemmed in by wolves. Bonnie understands the urge—she’s moving in herself, heart thundering in her chest—but she feels ashamed as well. They’ve been searching for this, haven’t they? Reaching out into the night and whispering with ghosts and spirits in search of the old gods?

If these two aren’t of their number, she doesn’t know what they could be.

“Have the tree priests changed so?” the longhaired god says. “You were strong once, when your people and mine ran side by side through the woods. Will none of you treat with us?”

The want is so thick around Bonnie that she can taste it mingling with the terror and awe in her throat, but no one moves. No one speaks. No one wants to be first.

She’s nobody—late come to the order, and frumpish, and meek. She works as a telemarketer for the Red Cross in the evenings, and once a week attends yoga class. She owns two cats—Felix and Marie—and a potted cactus her mother gave her, which is the only plant she has managed to keep alive for more than a week. Her dreams are edged with colors she has never seen awake, and she can speak to departed souls, and sometimes she thinks that she can hear voices murmuring to her on the wind, but the most thrilling thing she has ever done is buy Rocky Road ice cream at the store instead of her usual Strawberry.

She understands, instinctively, that these two are going to want a lot more than a daring dessert switch.

 _They don’t want me,_ she thinks with a pang of sorrow. _I’m not for them._

But those golden eyes are still scanning the crowd, restless and catlike, and no one else is moving, and she thinks, with a sensation like waking, that she _could_ be for them.

If she takes a chance.

If she dares.

Bonnie Calderman, a thirty-five year old spinster with two cats and a cactus and a thousand dollar mortgage and a shitty job she hates and _potential_ , takes a deep breath and steps forward.


End file.
